Life and Liberty
by Sirius7
Summary: Historically, James Hamilton, Sr., may have been an absent father, but he did not lack affection towards his sons. What if that wasn't the case? In a world where Hamilton Sr., was Alexander's father in name only, there are even more atrocities in Alexander's childhood that his friends and chosen family don't know. WashingDad.
1. Memories and Philosophical Discussions

Life and Liberty: A Hamilton Fanfic

Author: Sirius7 on (Sirius_Writings on AO3)

Rating: M for disturbing subject matter

Summary: Historically, James Hamilton, Sr., may have been an absent father, but he never disclaimed paternity of his sons and did not lack affection towards them. What if that wasn't the case? In a world where Hamilton Sr., was Alexander's father in name only, there are even more atrocities in Alexander's childhood that his friends and chosen family don't know, and the knowledge of them makes an appearance at the worst possible time – in the middle of a war. While I do bring in historical fact when it enhances the tale, and intersperse it with background as provided by the musical, this is fanfiction and I do not pretend to actual historical accuracy. Historically, there were no women in the Western World certified as physicians at this time, and I'll be blatantly ignoring that. Other individuals who died during the course of the American Revolution may die earlier or later than they did in real life, I bring in a few original characters, and Hamilton's date of birth in my mind is 1757, not 1755 (as only one official document ever noted his birth-year as 1755, and there were several other proven inaccuracies in it).

Chapter One: Memories and Philosophical Discussions

February 1777 – Valley Forge

_Alec! Alec, no, I don't want to go! _With a soft groan, Alexander Hamilton opened his eyes, wiping the cold sweat from his face that always came with the dreams. Even after sixteen years, they refused to fade, but he wouldn't want them to. They were the only memories he had left now and he wouldn't sacrifice them for anything, even if the subject was his greatest failure. The memories burned endlessly, a wound that never healed because he wouldn't let it, because somewhere deep inside there lived hope still. That tiny spark drove him to his feet to ready himself for the day and anticipate the overwhelming riptide of work that doubtless awaited him. Alexander wouldn't complain, welcoming the distraction this day just as much as any other. Breakfast was a thought only inasmuch as he did not trust that it would stay in his stomach, and elected to miss it altogether.

If he also worked straight through lunch… he didn't notice.

Washington's gaze tracked his swiftly-writing aide-de-camp, the young man's hand showing no indication of the disquiet the General had noticed in him throughout the day. Alexander Hamilton – for all his words – rarely said anything directly pertaining to own past or well-being. Though Hamilton had been his aide only for a few short weeks, Washington had quickly grown fond of the young man. The General acknowledged, though only to certain other interested parties, that he would be pleased if Hamilton would deign to mitigate his lack of knowledge regarding what made the younger man who he was. His impatience, he admitted only to himself.

Of course, Martha, knowing her husband well and possessing the cooler head in such matters, wisely advised that the General not push for answers Alexander did not wish to give.

Alexander's frantic pace continued throughout the day, as the General grew ever more concerned, that concern easing only somewhat as Laurens and the young Marquis came to drag him to a late dinner and force him to his rest. He dissuaded Hamilton's protests at the interruption by the simple expediency of ordering his aide to comply with his friends' wishes, and watched with undisguised fondness as the three young hellions left the office.

Washington kept a keen eye on his senior aide over the course of the next several days, noting how freely Hamilton threw himself into his work, seeming to relax in inverse proportion to the amount of work on his desk. The busier he kept his mind and his hands, the less haunted he appeared. The General realized within just a few days that the best times to gain a true gauge of his aide's mood was at first greetings in the morning, before either one actually started on the day's work… and late at night when the work had dwindled somewhat and his aide scrabbled for more to do before Washington ordered him to rest.

Washington held his temper over the issue for three weeks while they gathered intelligence, planned campaigns and corresponded with Congress and their loved ones, the General never failing to be grateful that Martha had chosen to come winter with the troops. Grateful, he was, and no mistaking it, though he would have preferred her safe – and better provisioned – at Mount Vernon. It was his own life experience and Martha's that helped him place that look in Alexander's eyes for what it was… haunted grief.

And he was more than ready to have done with Hamilton attempting to handle it alone. "Hamilton… put aside your work and sit with me. The correspondence will not disappear overnight."

Alexander's head came up slowly, and it was obvious to Washington that he'd been focused on his work to the exclusion of all else. That in itself was not an uncommon state of being for the younger man. His silent willingness to do as Washington had directed, without protesting the need to continue his work, was a much greater surprise. The silence was, to no small extent, unnerving in its rarity.

Hamilton sat in the chair across from him, carefully cradling a cup of tea almost as if his very life depended upon it, and Washington reined in his own impatience to maintain the not-quite-comfortable silence of the quarters. All the same, though he was expecting Alexander's patience with the silence to fail before his own, he would not wager that he would hear what was truly disturbing the younger man.

Eventually, the silence was broken by the sound of Alexander's voice, quieter than any other time the General had ever heard it, though their first meeting came a close second to it. "I know I've not been entirely successful in maintaining my composure, Your Excellency, and that you've noticed… and been patient with my failures in this regard. You have my apologies, though I know you'd prefer an explanation."

Hamilton paused for a moment, inhaling deeply, taking a sip of tea, and gathering his courage. Washington sorrowed at the thought that someone he was quickly coming to view as a son would in turn view him as a threat in need of facing. Still, he kept his face blank of his emotions, his own voice silent and listened closely as Hamilton's – still strangely quiet – filled the room.

"Old memories haunt me when the nights grow colder, and there are truths demanding to be told when I write anti-slavery essays with Laurens. Admittedly, I've told the darkest of those truths not even to John, though he would bear them well. And though I have a great deal of respect for you, General, I am… conflicted… over the idea of sharing them with you."

The reason for Hamilton's reticence sliced through the General's mind with all the subtlety of a lightning bolt and – for the first time since setting out the tea – he finally spoke. "Your uncertainty on the matter is because I own slaves. You've debated the topic with me on several previous occasions even in the short time we've known each other, Alexander; I'm well aware of your viewpoint. What makes this issue different?"

What Hamilton said next appeared to have no initial bearing on Washington's question, but he began to make the connections with each additional word escaping Hamilton's mouth.

"I was born and raised in the Caribbean, sir; you know this. In the Islands, there is no guarantee of freedom, even if you're born free. Any poor child – or indeed, any careless child, should they be away from their caretakers at an opportune moment – can find themselves in chains in a slave ship with relatively little effort on the part of the ship's crew or captain. A gifted pen could create the appropriate paperwork with little trouble, with a few scant sentences, bonding a freeborn child. That they were previously free would mean nothing, whether they were black, white or any shade in between, for the paperwork could declare even the most light-skinned child a mulatto. The truth of the matter was inconsequential." Alexander paused for a breath, and Washington mentally flinched at the scene being painted by his aide's words.

"While some of the children were taken, with their family – if they had one – being little the wiser for their imminent fates, other children were willingly handed over by the very family that should've protected them. It was, in fact, not uncommon that an adult in debt, finding himself with too many mouths to feed, would divest himself of one or more of them, decreasing the cost of care for his household and increasing the amount of coin in his purse. I've seen this, Your Excellency, and can discern nothing of righteousness, compassion or Christ in any of it. Even here, children are sold away from their parents and because they are slaves there is viewed no more ill-intent in the action than selling away a weaned foal from its dam, in complete disregard of the humanity involved. It is _business_, and many who participate in it do not even consider it distasteful, much less concern themselves with putting an end to the practice."

"It came close to you personally..."

"In many different ways, Excellency. Children I knew well disappeared when I was young, most I am certain to the holds of those ships. My family being what it was, I was well aware of my own risk for ending up in chains – this, in one part, due to my mother's concerned warnings, and in another part to my father's own spoken wish to have been rid of me before he walked out the door for the last time. We cannot be free if we hold the chains of others, and should I find myself in chains, I would separate myself from my limbs or indeed this very mortal coil before remaining in them. This time of year, I hear nothing but the screams of those I knew. Should that engender discomfort for you, Excellency, I apologize, but there is no light, cheerful manner in which to approach these memories – it is either in this manner or not at all."

The words Hamilton spoke seemed to drain his remaining energy as they left his lips, leaving behind them ghosts of the past that were ever-present in the young man's eyes now. Washington was himself conflicted – he had wanted to know more about his aide's childhood, but there was no happiness in it and a great deal more strife than anticipated… and he had never been blind to Alexander's half-starved look and well-honed ability to ignore his own needs. Even with the turmoil inherent to the conversation, the General knew there was more that Alexander was not saying… yet, as he saw the warmth of the tea settle into his aide's too-thin frame, and the shivers ease for the first time in several days, he could not bring himself to push.

"Your concerns are always welcome here, Alex, even should I indeed be disturbed by the topic of discussion. However much or little you reveal is your choice in its entirety." Standing, he removed the empty cup from his aide's hand, placing it on the table between them before laying a comforting hand on Alexander's shoulder and allowing it to linger for a moment. Rather like taming a feral cat, he kept in mind always the limits of what affections Alexander would allow from him, and knew the penalty for breaching those limits would be words as sharp as knives from his right-hand man. There would be no disrespect intended, but the automatic response would have the appearance of it, regardless of intent. Now, he suspected every last hesitation to accept such overtures led back to a childhood that was much harsher than he'd anticipated.

"It's rather early, yet, Alex. I expect you to engage in the basics of caring for yourself – eat, spend some time with your friends and remember to sleep. I'm certain the chaos will resume without pause at dawn."

And indeed it did, the work growing even as winter faded into a slushy, mud-filled spring. Barely a day passed that patrols did not return spattered – if not covered in their entirety – in mud, or soaked through and chilled by early spring rain still holding more than a hint of ice. Though the shadows in Alexander's eyes waned with the season, they did not vanish entirely, and the General felt compelled to ensure that the workspace occupied by his aides remained the warmest room at headquarters aside from his own personal quarters. If he had to be subtle about it or frame it as necessary for the health of any aide _other_ than Alexander in order for Hamilton to accept it… so be it.

Martha was his primary source of comfort during this time. They had been through so much together in life already, and his wife was his partner in all things. While some men might deem their wives too delicate to hear of such things as Alexander had confided in him, George was not of like mind. While he would not discuss military tactics with her, that had far more to do with her distinct wish to avoid those specifics than any lack of trust on his part. In all other areas of life, her counsel was invaluable. In dealing with the son of his heart – even if that son was not keen to accept the title – such counsel was also incomparable.

She understood even George's silences, how much he conveyed when he said nothing. He knew she saw his perhaps overly careful looks to Billy Lee, his own manservant – his slave, if he wished to call it what it was. After he explained what he'd learned of Alexander's past, he noted her own similar looks in the direction of her maid, Ona.

_Though we believe ourselves beneficent, how much damage is done solely by the act of eliminating their choice, their free will in all things? Punishments are rare at Mount Vernon, but those punishments meted out to the enslaved would not be imparted upon freed servants. Freeborn, paid servants risk only dismissal for a lack of care in their assigned duties… not the whip. Slave or free, rich or poor, we are one in the Lord. Their pleas to God have no less worth than my own. When I stand before the house of the Lord, how will my soul be judged in my treatment of them? "How can we be free if we hold the chains of others?" Should we free them, they may leave; __that is a matter of simple fact. But if they stay… of their own __**free **__will, how great would be our nation for their devotion added to our own?_ And a small, hopeful voice in the back of his mind whispered, _if I do what is right and just… will he finally trust me?_

And then a patrol returned with captured redcoats – one officer and two enlisted men – and George Washington learned far more of Alexander's past than ever he thought the younger man would be comfortable revealing.


	2. The British Officer

Notes: Herein is the stuff of nightmares…

See Chapter One for Rating and Disclaimer

Chapter Two: The British Officer

Alex stood one step behind and to the left of his General, keeping all appearance of paying close attention to the conversation while attempting to ignore the red haze that had been slowly overtaking his vision since his first sight of the captured men. His eyes swept over the scene again… the two enlisted men stood at attention, concerned, but holding up well. His thoughts centered on the officer – hard-eyed, mud-spattered and rather old for a Major – who remained on his knees in the mud after an ill-fated escape attempt. At a distance, he heard Washington comment to the redcoats before them that they would be questioned at a later time, and Alexander spoke.

"Respectfully, Your Excellency, I would request that I not be allowed near the Major, else I fail to control the deep and abiding temptation to gut him and leave him bleeding out in the mud, my own future meeting with a rope be damned." He heard the responding outcry around him and recognized the shocked exclamations of Laurens and Lafayette, though the silence from the General was far more telling. _He'll expect an explanation._

The British Major opened his mouth as if to speak, but whatever he many have considered saying was overrun by Alexander's words.

"I know this man, Sir," Alexander continued, his voice quiet, yet still carrying to all the surrounding watchers, his voice carrying further and all the more threatening for its uncharacteristic lack of volume. "He had three children, two boys, and one girl who was the youngest of them. He was never particularly close to his daughter, so it was something of a surprise when he took her with him one day, leaving the boys at home with their mother. She didn't want to go. Even though she loved the water, and already knew how to swim as many children in the area did, she had no wish to spend any time on the water with her father. Even then, his children knew they shouldn't trust him, though there was nothing to be done for it. The two went out together and the next day, he came back alone, claiming a tragic accident that resulted in his daughter drowning."

Lightly, he could feel a hand on his shoulder and knew it belonged to his General. Alexander could do nothing but continue with the tale, and did not care what it revealed of his past to the men around him. This man would be called to account for his sins even if it cost Alex everything.

"She was four and she was gone, and he was _glad _of it, though he grew increasingly perturbed with his younger son's questions on the matter, including why they'd never found a body. In all fairness, in that region, it would not have been uncommon for wildlife to make a meal of a drowned child. Far better for this man had that been the case. As it was, the younger boy was quite good at annoying the Major-who-wasn't, so much so that the day this man finally left his children, he _did_ tell that boy the truth." Alex took a deep breath, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the Major, resolute in his belief that if looks could kill, this individual masquerading as a human being would have been roasting in Hell at first sight.

"He had no use for daughters, and every use for money in his pocket. He forged papers declaring her to be a slave and took her to the market, though of course not the nearest one, for his face would have been known there. In the next breath, he said it would've been no more trouble to create an additional set of such paperwork to get his most vexing child off his hands as well. It really shouldn't have surprised him that his younger son tried to kill him that day. Such a pity that I wasn't just a bit faster."

Washington felt a chill chase down his spine as the connections he was making nearly froze his blood. _This_ was his brilliant aide's father? In a fraction of an instant, everything Alexander had already told him about his childhood crystallized into an utterly sickening panorama. _He knew many such children, but none more important to him than his own sister? _The utter silence of the camp astonished him, for it seemed even the birds and horses had been rendered mute. Even the enlisted men captured with the British officer looked ill at the realization that the man refuted none of the accusations Alex had levied against him.

The Major himself broke the silence with a sneer, the sound of Scotland in his voice. "If it isn't my dear _son_, grown and committing treason. I do wonder how much you'd be worth now. Your sister never did bring in much, even though she had those eyes going for her. That's how I knew she wasn't mine, and if she wasn't, it's unlikely any of my blood runs in _your_ veins."

In that moment, the General felt the temperature drop even further, and Alexander's normally fiery disposition became glacially cold in his fury. Washington let his hand slide from Alexander's shoulder and determined – for now – just to watch, with the intent of interfering should it prove necessary. There was much needing to be said and he wouldn't stop Alexander from saying it.

His face devoid of all emotion save the ice in his eyes, Alexander stalked towards the Major – now firmly identified as James Hamilton, Sr., at least unofficially – with a leonine grace reminiscent of the nickname young Lafayette had given him. Washington's gaze slipped to the side, and he waved off the swiftly-moving Lafayette and Laurens. He said nothing even as Hamilton grabbed the Major by the high collar of his uniform, and lifted him – one-handed – several inches up from where he'd been kneeling in the mud. Washington could not make out what Hamilton hissed in his elder's ear, but bore silent witness as all the blood drained from the older Hamilton's face.

When Alexander threw the British officer back to the ground and stalked in the direction of the General's quarters and his own office with just the briefest respectful nod to his commander, Washington loosed a half-hearted sigh of relief that the Major was still among the living. No one in this camp would have breathed a word had Alexander made good on his threat, but even their spies had not yet learned how to wring answers from the dead.

"Secure them in quarters, gentlemen. Triple-guard and patrols. They do not move from that room unless I command it personally." Surprisingly, the first response to that order did not come from one of Washington's own people.

"Begging pardon, General." The Sergeant Major spoke up, pausing until Washington had acknowledged him. "If it wouldn't be a problem, could the Major be kept separately from the rest of us? You see, sir," and here he nodded at the other Sergeant in the trio, "Hutchins and I have daughters. I'm loyal to King and Country and won't deny it, but I'd rather not be duty-bound to defend the Major should the young Colonel come calling. My girls are the light of my life and I cannot countenance any parent doing what he's freely confessed."

To the General's mind, that was an entirely reasonable request and one that was easy to grant, and he did so with words he couldn't remember before he turned on a heel and made his way toward his own quarters, Laurens and Lafayette trailing behind him at a glance.

_ "... gut him and leave him bleeding out in the mud." Holy God, Alexander_. Laurens felt his breath catch in his throat at the utter loathing in his best friend's voice. He had no doubt that his own face bore the same look as was slowly appearing on the faces of the enlisted men captured with the Major. The situation, of itself, was not unknown to John; that masters sired children on their female slaves which they then kept in slavery was a fact of the abhorrent institution, for all that it remained unspoken.

This situation was factually different only in that the child surrendered to slavery – and the mother to whom she'd been born – were both free. _The essence is the same – fathers abrogating every duty of care they have to the welfare of their children. This man is certainly ill-deserving of the title or the responsibilities with it, to so abandon all his children. This… this, of all things, explains in excruciating detail, even without words, my dear friend's reaction to being called 'son.' I would no sooner wish to acknowledge any filial connection to such a man, myself. And yet, am I any better, having left my wife and daughter in a country with which I am at war? I've left them the protection of my name, but in British eyes, that would be no protection at all. I wouldn't sell my daughter, but God, would I even know her, were I to pass her on the street? _John heard much of the conversation through a mental fog, his attention caught more by Alexander's swift movement towards the Major than any words spoken. He moved to intercept his friend, barely noticing Lafayette moving in concert at his side, both of them stopping abruptly at the General's unspoken order.

Laurens watched wordlessly as Alexander, in his rage, effortlessly lifted a man who – better rested and better fed – easily and visibly outweighed him. It should not have been possible and yet, John was seeing it. Neither of the enlisted redcoats spoke a word in protest, and certainly, no witness in the Continental Army breathed even a whisper of objection. Laurens knew his friend could kill the captured officer, even believing that he would himself hang for it… and instead, his friend would go free. The Major not only neglected to deny the charges levied by his estranged son, he openly admitted… nay, _bragged_ of the truth of them. He was unashamedly proud of what he had done, to the point where his only expressed regret was in not committing the same unpardonable sin against his younger son.

John was not surprised when the enlisted men requested to be housed separately from the captured officer, nor was the General's agreement at all unexpected. He had not, however, expected to be all but ordered back to the General's offices for the discussion that followed.

Lafayette didn't know what to think, his mind whirring with a thousand different thoughts. _I could not have understood that correctly; my English cannot be good enough __for my little lion to have said what I thought he did. __This man sold his__ daughter… his four-year-old child. Oh, Alexander, what pain is this? How could any father do such a thing? I would willingly lay down my own life before allowing any harm to come to my child that was in my power to prevent. Dear God._

Gilbert did not realize he was moving to intercept Alexander until he saw the General's motion to stop, and he forced himself to remain still and just continue to listen, even after Alexander himself had stalked off in the direction of the aides' shared office. He wanted to follow his friend, but remained motionless until given leave to follow the General in the same direction, still in some state of disbelief regarding the events to which he'd just borne witness. For all that he'd known Alexander to in some cases have a hair-trigger temper, his rages were quick storms in most instances… loud and dangerous, but passing quickly. This… this had been a depth of rage he'd not known his dear friend to possess, a deliberate, abiding fury with the unceasing chill of the grave.

Gilbert did not hold out much hope for the British Major's continued survival, and would help Alexander hide the body without hesitation if it was needed, though he suspected everyone in the camp was of the same mind… including the two British Sergeants. As he followed the General toward his offices, the Frenchman's deepest inclinations were torn between the need to comfort his friend and the need to hold his own daughter and ensure himself of her well-being.

Martha watched the proceedings not quite from the edge of the crowd of… rather rough… Continental Army personnel, holding a subtle vantage point that kept her out of her husband's line of sight while still letting her observe the goings on. Her heart ached for young Hamilton's sake, and the more she listened, the more she understood the contradictions of some of his actions, how he seemed almost to yearn for the paternal affection George offered while at the same time constantly refusing it. _That boy wants a father who's truly deserving of what the title should be, without the taint that the elder Hamilton has gifted it. But we own slaves, George and I. It doesn't matter how much that man-child may want the closer connection, __he will see __any acceptance of it is a betrayal of the sister he would have been too young to save. He cannot countenance being deemed any kind of child to a slave-owner when his closest kin was sold away, and when he has been near enough to being a slave himself._

And when Alexander turned around to determinedly retreat back to the Staff Headquarters and his own office, the look on his face was too familiar to Martha, for all that she'd seen it only once, and it had not been directed at her. The look, that fury so cold it burned… she had seen it on her husband's face and had hoped never to see such a thing again. It was more than the rage that took her aback, though… the shape of the nose, that set to the shoulders and economy of movement and unconscious posture of command, the shape and depth of the eyes, if not the color. _Dear Lord… could he __**actually **__be George's son?_

She knew without even questioning it, that, expressed affection aside, if that was the case, her beloved husband was entirely unaware. Honestly, she did not see how it was possible, given that George's only visit to any Caribbean island was not to one on which Alexander had ever resided and was several years before the boy's birth. That aside, they would need to speak on this later. And if George didn't have all the necessary clues to fit this puzzle… perhaps James Hamilton would.


	3. Cold Rage, Couple Drinks & a Little Hope

Notes for Chapter Three: Alex has the blue-violet eyes that are historically accurate, but the same lovely black hair as LMM in the musical (since I'm presuming the reddish hair he possessed in reality came from the Hamilton side of the family….).

Trigger-warning for spousal abuse and child sexual abuse (implied but not shown).

Chapter Three: Cold Rage, a Couple Drinks and a Little Hope

For all that Washington was a large man, he was not lacking in grace, and deliberately kept his steps slow and quiet as he ascended the steps of the building which housed both his private quarters and the working offices for himself and his aides. He noticed rather absently that Laurens and Lafayette followed his example without a spoken word between them. Pausing at the office door, he spared a moment to be grateful that Billy Lee was not present, currently seeing to other daily tasks, not out of any dislike for the man, but rather his own mixed feelings regarding the Institution in which Billy was bound. Washington had long debated with himself on the issue of slavery, and Alexander's views on – and history with – said Institution only increased his unease.

He entered the aides' office and saw that though Alexander was the only aide present, he was not working. The man who so often needed to be pulled bodily from his desk was standing motionlessly at the window, at a parade rest while appearing to look at nothing through the glass. Alexander's hands betrayed his continued turmoil, clenched so tightly that his knuckles were a bloodless white. Washington, with Laurens and Lafayette behind him, stopped several feet away from the distressed man, not knowing if Alexander – he did not wish to refer to him as Hamilton, even in his own mind – had registered their presence. He knew if he got too close here, after what they'd just witnessed, he'd damn well deserve any punch Alex would throw.

"I can see you in the window, Sir; you needn't worry about startling me. You're all welcome to sit, even should I not, seeing as the office isn't mine alone. I've not the right to tell you to go away even if I wanted to… and I must admit, I'd rather you not." The sound that escaped Alexander was not one that Washington would call a laugh, far too full of bitterness and pain, with not even the most remote connection to any joyful thought. Then, too, Washington wasn't at all certain what to think of the resigned set to Alexander's shoulders.

_"__Lion..."_ Lafayette's voice trailed off into silence, and Washington felt a brief flash of amusement that not even the flamboyant and often verbose Marquis knew what to say. Alex slowly turned on a heel, facing the other men, and headed for his desk, grabbing three chairs along the way and relocating them closer to his own workspace. Washington hoped he merely thought it coincidence that his desk was nearest the fire, in the warmest and best lit section of the room. He was utterly certain his aide's choice of seating location for the upcoming conversation was far less concerned with his own comfort than that of everyone else. Even in the matter of weeks Washington had known the younger man, he'd seen repeatedly how Alexander's own physical comfort did not matter to him, but for his friends, he'd sacrifice gloves, scarves, anything resembling a warm coat and a treasured place by the fire.

He had more than a slight suspicion that Alexander remained in the desk closest to the fire only because the other aides would routinely subvert his attempts to move and surrender the space to one of them.

Alexander sat in his own desk chair, not yet looking at any of the three men who'd tracked him down – _not that I made it difficult_ – ostensibly to discuss the confrontation that had just taken place with the British soldiers. He did not wish to discuss this, but his own request to be kept away from the Major had put an end to the silence he'd maintained on his own past.

_I never speak about the things that hurt the most… but I've already hinted at it to the General, already spoken outright about it within hearing of nearly every soldier here. My General, these men I call my friends, they deserve to know even if I'm not sure I have the words. __For all my reluctance to take th__is__ position, I do not want to be forced to leave these men. How much of my past will be too much to accept?_

"Honest to God, I don't know where to start, so… perhaps my grandfather, then. He passed before I was born, but from what _M__am__á__n _said, and the books that remained, certain character traits carry through to subsequent generations. _Grandp__é__re_ left France in search of a new life where he would not have to compromise his beliefs, a Huguenot who fled to the British West Indies so he would not be forced to surrender his faith and lay claim to another. He had a rather large number of children from two marriages, but only two of his children lived long enough to have children of their own – my mother Rachel and her much older sister, Ann. I know almost nothing else about _Grandp__é__re's _past, not even the names of his parents. He was the local doctor, but I cannot even begin to discern whether he was a fully trained physician when he first set foot in the West Indies or if he sought training after he settled. In short, what I know of Jean Faucette is minimal, but that drive to heal is incredibly familiar." He had to pause, breathe, gather his thoughts. Alex realized his hands were shaking and was hopeful that no one else would notice.

All the same, he was grateful for the continued silence of his small audience.

"My _Grandp__é__re_ died in 1745, and shortly after, a Dutch merchant began courting my mother, then sixteen, his eye rather solidly on the not-insignificant sum she had inherited, and they married later that year. They welcomed their only child, Peter, the year after that, and her husband's temper grew ever shorter with her, though he never laid an angry hand on their son. In 1750, she ran to escape him, after he'd had her charged with crimes she didn't commit and subsequently jailed. She could not take a breath without his permission and could not abide being so chained. Her money stayed in his control, and so did her oldest son, who – again – he had never treated with anything other than sincere paternal affection. Only his wife was at risk from his violent temper. It is to everyone's misfortune that in running from him, she encountered and was charmed by someone even worse, for it was in fleeing Johann Lavien that she met James Hamilton, the youngest son of a Scottish Laird and an utter rake."

Alex still refused to look at any of the other men in the room, gaze resolutely fixed on the floor for fear of what he would see in their eyes, fighting spirit utterly deserting him when faced with these men whose opinions mattered more to him than any other, men who had his respect and did not themselves carry the taint of illegitimacy.

"She tried to divorce Lavien in such a way as he would not be able to find her, but her requests for such privacy were not granted, even under fear for her own life. Living separately from him without legally severing the bonds between them was the only option available to her at the time. And in this time of vulnerability, Hamilton sought her out and endeavored to make her dependent upon him, while maintaining for himself the utter freedom to leave whenever he should choose… and it was in this situation to which their three children were born, James, Jr. in 1753 and myself and Leah in 1757."

John's voice broke the relative silence then, expressing curiosity and sympathy, but – surprisingly – no condemnation. "Leah is the youngest?"

Alexander knew what he was really asking, "Yes, Laurens, but by a matter of minutes only. If Hamilton was right that she isn't his, then I feel entirely free to consider myself likewise divested of anything resembling filial duty to the man. If she wasn't his, than neither am I, thanks be to God."

He took another deep breath and continued, for just this moment, focusing on happier memories. "We were both reading before we were three, Leah and I, and _Grandp__é__re's_ calling to healing quite obviously settled firmly on her. She would pull his medical texts off the shelves and look over them for hours, long before either one of us could pronounce the medical terms or knew what they meant. She would also bring home all manner of wounded creatures and dog the footsteps of the doctor who'd replaced _Grandp__é__re_ on the island whenever she could get away with it. She was everything that was bright and good in my life and then she was gone even before either one of us had the chance to attend what formal schooling was available to us."

Washington closed his eyes for just a moment as he realized Alexander, though still beyond furious with James Hamilton, Sr., feared their reactions to this revelation of his past. Under other commanders, he must admit, that fear might be justified. It was a shadow on this birthing nation and the ideals for which they fought that the stain of illegitimacy continued to fall far more harshly upon the children who had no say in it than the adults who'd participated in that act of creation. In the case of Alexander's mother, the fault quite clearly appeared to lay with both the men of her life stripping her of any choices which would have been more to her benefit. Barring the possible bias of a loving son, Rachel Faucette had every appearance of an innocent woman trapped in appalling circumstances. Neither she nor her children had deserved to bear the price for the sins of those men, but he could not turn back the very seasons to save the children they had been. He could not but reassure the young man Alexander was now.

"Alex… look at me." The General very carefully kept his voice soft, not willing to give Alexander any further reason to believe he would be dismissed. Alexander's gaze slowly raised from the floor to meet his, and Washington could see an utterly unfamiliar resigned acceptance within them… an expression unseen on his aide's face until that very moment.

"James Hamilton's crimes are his alone. It is to your credit that you've risen so far _despite _them. There is no fault to you in that, and I would have no other as my right-hand man… not least of which because that would leave me to deal with Congress directly." As intended, the comment startled an honest laugh out of the younger man, and Washington felt something in him relax. The situation was not unsalvageable. Hearing the clink of glasses, his gaze swept to Lafayette for a moment, and he came to the conclusion that he might not wish to know where the Marquis had found the glasses and brandy decanter that were now on Alexander's desk. They certainly hadn't come _from_ Alexander's desk… though they might belong to Laurens. It mattered less than nothing; he wasn't of a mind to object to it.

"Should anyone have a problem with your presence in this camp and at my side, they may feel free to bring it to me directly. You'd made a formidable name for yourself before we met by stealing British cannons and repeatedly providing critical cover fire that allowed our forces to retreat in safety when needed. You are here because I _want _you here, Alexander, because your pen is more skilled even than your aim, and I will not see you removed from this position due to any prudish loudmouth believing you to be defined by the circumstances of your childhood over which you had no control. Do you understand?"

Alexander sighed, that one sound seeming to lift at least some of the weight from his shoulders. "I understand, though had you not been so open in initially convincing me to accept the position, I would think myself to be dreaming now. Of a normal day, Your Excellency, you are not particularly known for being so verbose. I cannot imagine that I would be worthy of such an honor… though, my imagination also fails when I try to consider Laurens or Lafayette being silent for such a stretch of time with all three of us in the same room."

Rather predictably, that last comment – said with a smile as it was – garnered vocal protest from the General's other two lads, light-hearted and more than a little relieved, even as Lafayette moved to pour brandy in one of the glasses and hand it to Alexander directly. He took it with a nod and half-smile, sipping slowly while – Washington thought – considering carefully which part of the story should be told next. _Perhaps, _the General thought, _it is more a matter of what he is capable of telling next, rather than a matter of chronology._

With a sigh, Alexander continued, drinking the brandy at measured intervals as he spoke. "After Hamilton walked out, we moved from Nevis to St. Croix – Christiansted, specifically – and _Mam__á__n_ ran a little shop. Most nights, after the shop closed, we would sit together going over my lessons, or talking about our hopes for Leah. 'We'll find her,' I'd say, 'or she'll find a way out on her own. She's going to be a doctor.' One night, after a very long day for her, looking so exhausted and fragile it seemed the slightest wind would blow her away… that was the day she sat me down and explained in greater detail things I'd been too young to notice or put into words."

Alex took another sip to moisten his parched throat and spoke on. "She said, 'Oh, my son, this is a world of men, and they are not known for acknowledging – or appreciating – intelligence in women. It frightens them, my boy, and they are threatened by it, and so we are not allowed to follow our dreams if they lead us to a place other than what they have deemed acceptable. Women are not admitted to medical schools, my son, or to serious study of the law. We have no voice other than what we can exercise through the men in our lives. I have always loved watching my children learn, Alec, but watching Leah was always bitter-sweet. It would not matter should she have more knowledge and skill than even the best-educated man in the medical field, the world of men would not allow her to put those letters after her own name, would not allow her to claim the same title as any man with half the education. You were both meant for great things, Alec, and now, even the everyday pleasures of the free cannot be called hers.' Still, her certainty couldn't dim my own, that somehow, Leah would find a way."

He didn't take another sip of the brandy, but turned his eyes to the window, absently noting gathering clouds. "On days when the shop wasn't open, or after the shop had closed, she would go for long walks and return exhausted. I would ask where she'd been and she would never answer, save that she had to do something important, but it wasn't anything she wanted my help with, just yet. She wouldn't even let Jamie help, and he was four years older."

"You figured out where she was going, didn't you?" Laurens' voice broke the silence again, and Alex absently mused that it was odd for his friends to be so unerringly quiet, in the general course of a day. Then again, there was nothing routine about this particular day.

"I did… but only because she came home crying. I'd never seen her cry before, never seen her looking so helpless. She told me to pray, pray that Leah was dead, because it would be more merciful than life with her _owner." _Alex stopped again; truly, he had no choice _but_ to stop, finishing the brandy in one quip gulp to try and banish the memory of his mother's broken pleas.

"She had found the records of Leah's sale, and the level of cruelty in it surpassed anything I ever wished to imagine regarding my sister's fate. Hamilton had sold her to a man well-known across several islands for certain tastes which would have seen him swinging had he been less particular in his targets. For all that the Islanders knew what he did, so long as he restricted his depravity to those he'd bought and paid for, they could do nothing. _Property_ has no rights under the law, and there is no age of consent for slaves. Their voices are silent, their will means nothing, and they have no recourse against cruelty, for they are not _people_ under the laws that govern our world."

Alexander felt a wetness on his cheeks and realized he was crying, but he could not summon up the energy to care. He clung to the tiny light that warmed his soul even on the darkest days, closing his eyes for a moment. He opened them again only when he felt someone tug the glass from his hand and watched as Lafayette silently refilled it. As soon as Gilbert handed it back, Alexander drained it again.

Sighing, knowing the sordid tale to be almost over, as far as he knew it, he took another breath and continued. "And still… we were given hope. A few weeks before Christmas, that year, there was announced a public hearing regarding that very man. Neither Jamie nor I would let _Mam__án _leave us behind that time. We went to the hearing and sat in the seats open to the general public, and listened for several hours as the interested parties debated on whether to declare this man dead and finally open and implement his will, as he had not been seen in several years. When his records were entered into evidence, his register of slaves ended the day _before_ he would have purchased Leah; she was never entered into it as his property. His personal journals were entered into evidence as well – thankfully, _not_ read to the public – and the last entry was dated the morning he left for that particular market. There was no evidence that he ever returned to his estate after purchasing my sister, despite having no reason to leave. It was as though they both had vanished off the face of the earth. I could pray only that it meant he died that day. In my nightmares, she was found and claimed by someone even worse, but in my dreams… in my dreams, she was saved from him and is safe still and free, even if I don't know where."


	4. A Long-Overdue Letter and Those Who See

Notes for Chapter Four: I'm making Ona "Oney" Judge much older than she actually was, given that I already mentioned her in a previous chapter and I don't want to change it because I find her fascinating. In reality, she was born in 1773 and would have been far too young to be a maid to Martha Washington at any time during the Revolutionary War. She was a slave who escaped Mt. Vernon and fled to freedom in New Hampshire in 1796 and was hunted by a less enlightened GWash for the last three years of his life. Hopefully, in fiction, I grant her a kinder life where she can be who and as she wishes without the need to fight, run or hide.

Additionally, the quote that I attribute to Martha 'Patsy' Parke Custis is - so far as I am aware - not attributable to any real historical person, though it seemed very familiar as I was typing it. If it is an actual quote, please let me know so that I may give credit where it's due.

Chapter Four: A Long-Overdue Letter and Those Who See

His pen slowed to a stop, eyes reading back over the words on the parchment one more time. These words had to be perfect if they were even to begin making up for his previous shortcomings. What he had learned of Alexander's past over the last few hours – long though they seemed – had made clear his own failings as a husband and a father. Admittedly, though John did not feel he and Martha were well-suited as a married couple, they had been dear friends, and in his dissatisfaction with his marriage, John had let that friendship fade. Reigniting that companionship would be only the beginning of the reparations he need make to his wife and daughter.

_My Dear Mar__tha,_

_I must offer my most sincere apologies for this long-overdue correspondence. Recent events have brought to mind the many ways in which I have wronged you, my dearest friend. Admittedly, I find myself at a loss as to where I might begin offering some recompense for my errors. __I remember those days when we would sit for hours, speaking of our hopes and dreams for the future, and know that I bear all fault for the current silence between us. _

_Martha, you alone knew that I would have preferred the study of medicine over law, my differences of opinion with my father on a multitude of issues, my passion for the cause that is Abolition. You demanded nothing of me and still I chafed at __the __bonds I set for myself. At heart, I miss my friend. __Is there hope that we might find that friendship again, my dear wife, or have I killed it with a lack of care?_

_I beg any word of yourself and our dearest Frances, wishing to be both a better husband and father than I have been as of yet. I have no doubt, dear Martha, that you could have found a far better husband than I in my absence, but the vows are spoken, and you shackled to my unworthy self. It has been poorly done on my part not to attempt to make the best of it. Might you see it clear to allow me that chance now? __I eagerly await your response._

_I remain ever hopeful._

_Your repentant __husband,_

_John_

Setting aside his quill and capping the inkwell, Laurens waited for the ink to dry, mind going back to all the words that had spilled from Alexander's mouth just a short time before, and the urge they sparked in him to build a connection to his child, in direct counterpoint to that which a captured British Major had spurned.

John cast a concerned glance at his sleeping friend, clearly recalling the combined effort between himself, Lafayette and the General to see Alexander just intoxicated enough to seek sleep willingly, and to not protest overmuch when the other three sought to lead him to his bed. He's not certain Alexander would've recognized the look in the General's eyes, being fairly well assured that his friend had been deprived of all paternal affection in childhood, but John knew what that look meant. Washington wanted nothing more than to care for the young man he'd quickly come to see as a son, even moreso than before in the light of James Hamilton's crimes against the children in his care.

For once, Alexander's sleep seemed peaceful, though for the sake of his pride, John _almost_ hoped that he would not remember the General tucking him in as though he were a small child. _That said, being covered with the General's own c__ape__ is a rather significant reminder. _Laurens did not envy Alexander the chaos of his life to this point, and did not see his friend's life getting any easier in his future endeavors. John planned to support him nonetheless, hopefully while untangling the thorny vines of his own life at the same time.

Washington sat with a relatively small stack of correspondence in the privacy of his personal quarters, his beloved Martha sitting in the chair opposite him, in the beginning stages of a new project. George had no doubt it was a pair of socks or gloves for one of his aides, as she routinely did all she could to ensure their welfare so that they, in turn, could ensure his.

Both Washingtons worked in quiet for a time, waiting in unspoken agreement for Billy Lee to complete his tasks and leave the room. When he had, it was Martha that spoke first. "George, I know you love that boy as a son, but I have a question for you, beloved. By what providence would he be able to accept your affection so long as we hold others in bondage as we now know his sister to be? While we both know certain families to easily tolerate such things, our Alexander is vehemently opposed to that mindset. I know you've long been conflicted on the issue of slavery, but it's rather come to the point where we must make a final decision on it."

George sighed and reached for his cup of tea. "The situation is worse than that, my dear, and though I am not normally inclined to summary execution… there is no doubt in my mind that James Hamilton would be deserving of such of thing, both for that which was revealed in public and that which Alexander revealed in more private confines. That he would behave in such a way to any child in his care, even if he might believe she is not his… I cannot understand such a thing. I do not _want_ to understand such a thing. Though, in that tragedy, there is one bright point, at least, that eased Alexander's spirits somewhat."

Martha did not comment, but merely raised a brow in response. "Leah's his twin, younger by a matter of minutes. If she wasn't Hamilton's, then Alex need claim no connection for himself. I suspect if he had an easy way to be rid of the Hamilton name in any official sense, he'd take it. But that, though lighter, distracts from the question at hand. Slavery… in specific, those slaves who belong to us. I… Martha, I don't even know where to begin. There have been slaves around both of us since we were infants, working our fields, caring for our households. What we see as normal leaves us blind to all other possibilities. In truth, we may need other eyes on this situation than our own. That said, even if we instantly freed all the slaves that are within our power to free, that would still leave the dower slaves, in trust within our keeping for Jackie. Legally, they do not belong to us that we might free them… and Jackie… Jackie would not heed any advice of mine on the matter."

"George, dearest, if freedom is what we desire, for ourselves and for those we now own, distasteful as that term is swiftly becoming, then you may leave Jackie to me. Too long, he has known his future to be secure in what Daniel left for him, and has not sought to make any mark of his own. Allowing that was my failing, but though I love you dearly, I did miss Daniel, and had no wish to push away what was left of him by perhaps being too stern with Jackie and Patsy. I could only wish that the two of you had found some interest in common, but that was not to be with Jackie, though Patsy adored you. Were she among us still, and this decision hers to make… she would free them. 'If the choice is between taking a right action today and fearing the consequences tomorrow, do what is right today and let tomorrow see to itself. To do otherwise is to lack faith.'"

"Then they will be free, and I'll bring young Laurens in tomorrow morning for ideas on how exactly to see it done, as well as drawing in others he may recommend. I would like to extend the offer to stay – as freedmen occupying paid positions – to as many as may take it, so as to not leave Mt Vernon poorly defended and to give an example that neighbors may follow, though I don't hold much hope on the last."

Ona Judge walked all but unseen through the camp, the laundry basket in her arms giving her a ready excuse to be traveling between buildings and tents, even as it neared sunset. She'd already cast a curious eye to the aides' sleeping room, the door cracked open as most of the aides were off to dinner, and nothing much would be waking Colonel Hamilton any time soon. She'd watched him come to the bedroom on the arms of his friends, and figured he'd sleep sound enough tonight.

Like most of the camp, Ona had heard what had happened with the captured redcoats, and if she'd been tempted to set them free and steal away with them, she quickly stomped on those thoughts when she heard what the Major had done. He was no better than any Colonial _master_, and she'd not be trusting any word that came out of his mouth saying otherwise.

What had been said, though… explained a lot. Slaves were possessions, all but furniture until they were needed. If there was only a slave in a room, than there was _no one_ in the room, because they didn't count. Not seen, nor heard, unless they were needed. They saw nothing and heard nothing unless the master addressed them… and yet, they saw and heard everything. To be underestimated, to be ignored, to hold knowledge that the masters didn't know they had… that was their power. There was _nothing_ a master could do that one of his slaves would not know; there were no secrets that a master could keep even in his own home. Only his thoughts stayed his own, and the minute he spoke of them, his _property_ knew.

She would've had to be blind not to see how Master George cared for Colonel Hamilton and how the younger man fought it; she was not. Nor was she stupid merely because the law declared she could not be taught to read; she knew he fought that care because he'd been too close to being a slave his own self to want to call a master 'father.'

Colonel Hamilton walked a fine line, Ona knew. He always saw them and always acknowledged them, though with a care to who else was in the room. For all that he'd never been a slave, he greeted them as one, always with an eye to the location of the master. _When Master George or Miss Martha's in the room, he waits until they can't see and then nods. He treats us like people, but in a way that won't get us in trouble._ She'd seen him do the same with other slaves in the camp, strangely quiet for a man that didn't seem to know the meaning of word. There was respect in every greeting, a silent _'I see you, you're a person, you matter. You are not invisible; you are important.'_

And now, because Master George loved this young Colonel who saw them, and who'd been within a breath of feeling the chains lock down on him… because he loved this observant man-child who believed so deeply that people were not property… maybe there would be no need to run. Maybe she could be free without being hunted. Maybe, a father's love for a son would be the first step leading to something better for everybody.


End file.
